The Soft Option
by freudian fuckup
Summary: In which Merlin and Arthur share a flat, Arthur is busy and Important, Merlin is just plain busy, and everyone is completely content with the situation, at least until they're not, until they are very, very not.
1. Chapter 1

**A special thanks to the lovely and talented gogo_didi over at livejournal for editing this sprawling romcom monstrosity. I swear, this was going to be 3,000 words of fluff, but then they would not _just make out already_, and lo, the UST took on a life of its own.**

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* * *

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"Arthur," Merlin said loudly, competing with the sounds of bad seventies pop music blasting from Arthur's oversized speakers, "I don't know if you were aware, but your inability to put away your toothbrush isn't actually one of the endearing flaws that's convinced me to live with you."

"What?" Arthur shouted back, his voice distant and nearly drowned out by the sound of someone singing about piña coladas and inclement weather.

Merlin rubbed his temples. Between logging endless hours at the non-profit he claimed to work for and working an actual job, one that allowed him the luxury of things like toothbrushes, he was tired. And Arthur, despite his endless whinging about the trials of being the youngest VP in the history of Camelot Investments, was obviously getting enough sleep to be irritating well into the night.

"I said!" Merlin started, before turning on his heel and marching out of the bathroom and directly into—

Into Arthur. Suddenly, the music stopped, and Merlin wondered if he was the only one who heard his heart stop as well, then restart at an unnatural rate.

"You were saying?" Arthur said casually, catching Merlin's wrist where it was lodged in his armpit, stereo controller still clutched in his other hand.

Merlin swallowed thickly and awaited the inevitable return of his thoughts. They seemed to have migrated somewhere south of his brain right around the time the rest of his blood did likewise.

"About my toothbrush," Arthur encouraged with an annoyingly indulgent expression.

"Yes, and your shampoo and your aftershave and your—"

Arthur huffed.

"Something the matter, your highness?" Merlin chided, twisting his wrist out of Arthur's grasp and edging around his—alright, impressive—frame, into the living room.

"I should have known you'd be an absolute nag to live with," Arthur groaned, trailing after him.

"And I should have known you'd be too spoiled to pick up your own toiletries," Merlin replied, collapsing onto the sofa in a tired heap. "Honestly, did none of your nannies teach you to clean up after yourself?"

"I thought country boys were supposed to have manners," Arthur said, sprawling on the other end of the sofa with the enviable grace of someone with plenty of time to spend at the gym.

"Oh, here we go," Merlin moaned, flinging an arm across his face to block out the sight of Arthur looking smug and well-rested. It wasn't that he resented Arthur for being wealthy and almost illogically good looking, exactly. Most of the time the former didn't register and the latter was just sort of an incentive for putting up with all the things about Arthur that were truly and spectacularly annoying, like his bizarre obsession with weaponry and his apparent lack of domestic skills.

"No, seriously, Merlin, what would Hunith say?" Arthur asked. Merlin didn't need to look to know he was smiling.

"That you're an arse," Merlin muttered into his own arm.

Arthur snorted, and somehow it sounded haughty. "Your mother adores me. She's invited me round for Christmas, you know."

Merlin let his arm slide down his face enough to give Arthur a withering, if exhausted, glare. "This may come as a surprise to you, but not everyone is as in love with you as you are."

"Jealousy doesn't become you," Arthur sighed.

"She's my mother, Arthur. She still likes me better," Merlin groaned.

"Well, I suppose someone has to," Arthur conceded.

Merlin considered for a moment whether it was poor form to pass out on the sofa their first night sharing a flat, and he'd just about convinced himself that he was under no obligation to put out when he noticed Arthur flipping channels and giving Merlin an expectant look, though, fortunately, not his I'm Expecting Sex look.

"What?" Merlin asked tiredly.

Arthur shrugged without looking away from the screen.

It took a lot of effort on Merlin's part not to literally groan, partly because it felt overdramatic, but mostly because it was something Arthur would do. If being Arthur's friend and, at one point, his employee had taught Merlin anything, it was how to recognize a pout coming on, and this had the makings of an epic pout.

"Arthur, what are you doing?" Merlin said, scrubbing his face with the palm of his hand.

"I am watching telly," Arthur said, maintaining a disturbing level of interest in the rerun of Doctor Who he'd settled on, made even more odd by the fact that Merlin was absolutely certain they'd watched it together the night before in this exact flat, when it had been Arthur's and not theirs.

"Yes, I'd worked that much out for myself," Merlin said, making a concerted effort to maintain vertical integrity long enough to unknot Arthur's knickers. "But why are you doing it like you're trying to bore a hole through Freema Agyeman's head? Not that I object, mind you."

Arthur chuckled evilly. "Don't lie. She wore a lab coat one time, and you've been having filthy dreams about her ever since," Arthur replied, sliding his eyes towards Merlin.

"I have not! Some of us don't have career-based fetishes," Merlin said, giving Arthur a loaded glance.

"It's not a fetish. It's hardly my fault I look damn good in a suit," Arthur said, sounding far too confident for Merlin's liking and forcing Merlin to relive possibly the most unsettling moment of his entire adulthood, which had involved walking in on Arthur and a secretary and one of Arthur's painfully expensive ties being used in a manner Armani probably did not intend. It had been unsettling in several senses of the word.

Merlin chucked a pillow at his head.

"Hey! I thought you were so tired you could barely see straight," Arthur said, making a feeble attempt at pinning Merlin's arms to the sofa. It was obviously feeble because if he'd wanted to, Arthur could probably have taped Merlin to the ceiling without assistance.

"I'm rallying, as all great heroes must," Merlin said, wiggling out of Arthur's reach. Whatever dark cloud he'd seen pass over Arthur's face a moment ago was gone, and Merlin was grateful in ways he knew he shouldn't be.

That was sort of the problem, though, with moving in, with all of it. It wasn't that Merlin minded living with Arthur, or in Arthur's vicinity, or whatever they were calling it, it was just that he hadn't had much of a choice. It felt… dangerous, some how. Whatever they were doing, this surreal dance that made Merlin feel giddy and alive and, at times, completely delusional, had tapped into a part of Merlin he didn't usually acknowledge. The part of him that force-fed Arthur toast and tucked him into bed when he was well and truly pissed. The part that made sure Arthur remembered to go to the dentist and have his license renewed. The part of him that had a habit of subconsciously comparing his dates to Arthur, which in and of itself wasn't so terrible, except that his dates never seemed to measure up.

The part that was totally and utterly fucked.

Arthur eyed him suspiciously. "You're not staying up to humour me, are you?"

It took a moment for Merlin to work out what he was implying. "What? Wait, how am I…" And then Merlin noticed there was a bottle of champagne sitting forgotten on the table, and that Arthur was home on a Friday night instead of off doing whatever it was rich, pretty people did at the weekend. "Oh," he said quietly, "We're celebrating, aren't we?" Merlin fought the urge to smack himself in the head. It was just so typically Arthur that Merlin couldn't decide whether to laugh or be inappropriately pleased.

"Actually, so far, I'm drinking and you're harassing me about my toothbrush. But we could be celebrating," Arthur informed him.

"Me moving in? That warrants a bottle of champagne worth more that my life?" Merlin asked, a little bewildered, trying to repress the strange flush he so often got when Arthur did stupidly lovely things. Like buying him expensive champagne, or giving him a place to live without being asked, or, on one memorable occasion, threatening to skewer Merlin's date with an antique sword if he got handsy—which, alright, had been more stupid than lovely at the time, but in retrospect was just Arthur's slightly convoluted sense of chivalry, and therefore still rather sweet.

"Well, if it was worth less than your life, it would hardly be fit for human consumption," Arthur said, pausing to take a sip straight from the bottle. "Stop being such a girl."

"You're the one who bought champagne," Merlin said without much ire. "You do know I'm moving into your guest room, right? I'm not your live-in rentboy."

Arthur chuckled. "Not yet," he said, passing Merlin the bottle.

It took a good three seconds for Merlin's brain to stop screaming _oh shit, what?_ and _yes, yes, for god's sake_, _let's_, simultaneously, and actually take the offered bottle, but he did, and with steady hands, he was pleased to note. After a long swig of champagne—taken from the bottle, because apparently real men had no need of glasses—Merlin settled in just in time to see some alien do something and then be defeated by the power of David Tennant's charm. Arthur threw his arm across the back of the sofa, and if it felt like his fingers tangled in Merlin's hair every now and again, it was probably Merlin's overactive, overworked imagination.

* * *

The first thing Arthur realised upon waking was that he wasn't in a bed. The second was that it was Saturday, which meant he could put off going into work to catch up on paperwork for as long as he bloody well pleased. His second thought was also his last thought for several blissful, unconscious hours.

The second time Arthur woke up, it was a lot less pleasant.

Something pointy had lodged itself in his ribcage, and there was definitely hair in his mouth, and it definitely wasn't his.

Arthur opened his eyes and waited for them to adjust to the ferocious sunlight streaming in through the blinds in his—in their living room. In his infinite wisdom, Arthur had purchased enough champagne to drown a small pony, or, alternately, leave Merlin passed out on his chest, fully clothed, snoring like a freight train, and drooling all over Arthur's favourite shirt.

God, this was so not a precedent he'd been planning to set. He wiggled a little and realised Merlin's weight had him trapped, pinned in such a way that there was no way of standing up without dumping Merlin onto the floor which, while appealing in theory, would only lead to a lot of yelling and possibly vomit on Merlin's part.

"Fuck," Arthur whispered, and then he went very still, because Merlin's eyes were suddenly open, and Arthur had to wonder when he'd started ninja training to allow him to wake up without so much as moving.

"And good morning to you, too," Merlin grunted out miserably. The effect was almost comical in conjunction with the way Merlin's hair curled and stuck up all over his head, and the fact that he had creases across his cheek where he'd been resting against Arthur's wrinkled shirt.

"You look wretched," Arthur couldn't help but point out.

"I look hung-over, you arse. And it's your fault. Now, what have I said about you being a prat before my morning coffee?" Merlin said, making no effort to disentangle himself from Arthur's limbs.

"If you don't want to wake up to my charm, you shouldn't pass out on my chest because you smelled alcohol," Arthur said, trying not the think about how well their bodies fitted together, or how rumpled and vulnerable Merlin looked just then. God, it wasn't like Arthur was some crazed sex-fiend or anything, regardless of what Merlin tended to imply, it was just that there was this _thing_ that'd been going on for ages, quietly, blink and you'd miss it, but it was enough to drive Arthur out of his fucking skull. And now, Merlin was going to be living there, in Arthur's flat all the time, and suddenly Arthur realised he'd made a tremendous logistical error, because there were two things he knew for bloody certain: one, he didn't want to shag Merlin, because Merlin was his friend, and he wasn't going to fuck that up for anything; two, he _really_ wanted to shag Merlin.

Something in Arthur's face must have given him away, because Merlin looked at him, frowned. "Oh god, you're not going to throw up on me, are you?" he asked, without moving.

Arthur smiled. "If I did, it would only be in vengeance for New Years."

For a moment, Merlin looked unconvinced. He peered down at Arthur, as if checking for signs of impending illness. Then, their eyes met, and Arthur stopped breathing because their faces were a lot closer than they had been a second ago and something had to happen soon or he was going to explode. Finally, Merlin let out a resigned huff and closed the gap between them.

Arthur's entire body seized up like he'd been electrocuted. Merlin's mouth was on him, biting at his lip and sucking and, Christ, that was his tongue and it was doing some pretty interesting things, things Arthur would never have thought clumsy, hopeless Merlin capable of, but still, his brain was going off like an air-raid siren. It wasn't that he had any objection to doing stupid things with inappropriate people, as half the interns and two of the VPs at Camelot Investments would happily attest, he just preferred to do them while everyone involved was drunk enough that no one could be held responsible. And while he had to admit that this was better than a drunken tumble— all right, a lot better, and just what in the fucking fuck was Merlin doing with his mouth?— the downside was that Arthur was sober and so was Merlin, and it was morning, which was going to make waking up and pretending it never happened a lot trickier.

Merlin pulled away and frowned. "Alright, I'm going to interpret your lack of enthusiasm as surprise and not soul-crushing rejection, yeah?" he said calmly.

"Merlin…" Arthur attempted.

"Ok. Perhaps I'm being optimistic here," Merlin said, pulling away and offering a half-hearted smile that utterly failed to reach his eyes.

Arthur sighed and was sort of shocked to realise his fingers were tangled in the hem of Merlin's shirt. He let go, but there wasn't enough space for two fully grown men to lay side by side on the sofa, no matter how large and comfortable it was, or how skinny Merlin was. This was despite Arthur's best attempts at making sure he ate (usually in the form of lunch dates and take away curry consumed on the sofa in question). Their legs were tangled, and Merlin was still half on top of him, and the way Arthur's arm was pinned beneath Merlin's side was uncomfortable for everyone involved, but Arthur still sort of thought he wouldn't mind staying exactly as they were, which was, come to mention it, exactly the problem.

"Perhaps you are," he said quietly. Because really, how often did these things work out? Romance novels and soppy movies aside: just about never in Arthur's experience.

Merlin jerked back abruptly, cold air rushing into the body-warm space he'd been occupying on Arthur's chest. From the look on his face it was clear Merlin didn't care for his answer. "Look, I'm going—going over to Gwen's. See you later, yeah?" he said, standing up and grabbing his ridiculous messenger bag from the counter by the door where they had a tendency to shuck their things upon entering.

"Wait," Arthur called after him, an inexplicable twinge of panic shooting through his gut without explanation.

Merlin turned to him, eyes wide and uncertain, one hand already on the door.

"Arthur?" he said quietly.

Suddenly, the room was very still and Arthur felt like he'd fallen into an alternate universe, where the stupid shit he said might actually matter. This made it a tremendous shame that he had absolutely no idea what to say. "It's—" he tried, feeling completely inadequate without warning. He swallowed hard. "Don't forget your new key," he said softly.

Merlin blinked at him, and for a split-second, he looked almost disappointed, but in a flash it was gone. "Right," he muttered, grabbing the key from the countertop, "Thanks."

Before Arthur had a chance to regroup, the door slammed shut, and Arthur fell back against the sofa with miserable grunt.

* * *

Oddly enough, it took almost no time at all for things to go back to normal. Actually, if Arthur's behaviour was any indication, there had never been anything abnormal about them in the first place, and there was no way in hell Merlin was going to be the one to scream there is there is you unbelievable idiot, no matter how badly he wanted to. He should have been accustomed to it by then, the mounting tension, the loaded glances, the complete and utter failure to launch.

In fact, Merlin had intended to point all of this out just as soon as he was finished telling Gwen so she could pet him and call him a moron and a man in her most soothing tones, but by the time he went home—and god, wasn't that inconvenient—Arthur was making dinner with Merlin's favourite Coltrane album playing in the background, eager to chat about football and stocks, and not the weird, annoying outbursts of homosexuality they appeared to trigger in one another. Hell, perhaps Merlin had finally cracked under the pressure of working two jobs and dealing with Arthur Pendragon, pratliest prat in all the land, and the whole thing had been a figment of his tired, over-sexed imagination.

Except, it hadn't been. Because for all that they clearly Were Not Discussing It, Arthur hated jazz, and he was making (and ruining) Merlin's favourite pasta.

Within a week, Merlin could almost pretend he didn't remember the way Arthur's fingers felt tangled in his shirt, or the hard warmth of his chest beneath Merlin's own. After a month, he even regained the ability to brush past Arthur without getting an unbearable, near-instant hard-on.

They settled into a comfortable routine. Most mornings, they had breakfast. Merlin cooked eggs or bacon, sometimes both, while Arthur handled toast and juice – or, as Merlin put it, things that weren't poisonous in the hands of helpless yuppies who didn't know a wok from a wank. In the evenings, when Merlin wasn't on call and Arthur didn't work late, Merlin puttered around the kitchen, usually griping about their appalling lack of groceries, and emerge with some form of sustenance, which they ate in the living room while Merlin watched telly and Arthur read one of his frightening books about finance. Except for evenings Merlin came home tired (well, more so than usual) and cranky, then Arthur would disappear for a while and return bearing cartons of Chinese and, more often than not, a six-pack, and they'd spend the evening arguing over the last egg-roll, which inevitably devolved into chop-stick sword fights that Arthur always won.

It was a nice life, Merlin supposed, if only that.

* * *

Living with Merlin was a bit like having a maid with an attitude problem. For every home cooked meal Arthur got out of the arrangement, there was a scathing comment about Arthur's dietary habits. For every freshly laundered shirt that appeared in Arthur's closet as if by magic, he'd find one of his ratty old hoodies missing, only to discover it hanging off Merlin's bony frame where he lay curled up and snoring on the sofa. They never discussed the rent, because it was distasteful, and every time Merlin brought it up, Arthur was forced to suffocate him with a pillow.

Everything was going well, considering, and Arthur knew he should just shut up and leave well enough alone, but sometimes… well, sometimes he had thoughts.

Like what life would be like if lazy nights in with Merlin were actually lazy nights in bed with Merlin. Like how it would feel to pin Merlin to the floor without the excuse of a lone egg-roll Arthur didn't even want.

It was worse in the dark. Arthur would lie in bed and ponder the weight of Merlin's legs draped over his shoulders, calculate how much of Merlin's skinny waist he could span with his hands, muse over whether Merlin would be loud and obscene or quiet and trembling beneath him, his skin white and infinite under Arthur's mouth, sweating and panting Arthur's name into the crook of his neck while they—

And then there were the glances.

Sometimes, when he wasn't trying, Arthur would catch Merlin just looking at him, like he was thinking the same stupid, impossible thoughts, like maybe Arthur was wrong to have dismissed the idea, because what's a little fantastic, life-altering sex between friends?

Sometimes, Arthur could almost convince himself it was that simple.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a Friday, almost six months after Merlin had moved in, when everything came to a head.

"Merlin! Merlin, get up, oh my god, Merlin!"

Merlin, vaguely aware he was going to have to kill someone once he regained consciousness, rolled onto his stomach and pulled a pillow over his head.

"Merlin! Get. Up," Arthur seemed to be saying rather emphatically and, much to Merlin's dismay, close by.

"Nffmggk," Merlin argued.

"I am so late I may as well just wait an hour and say I'm coming in early for tomorrow," Arthur said, rummaging around in Merlin's nightstand.

Merlin poked his head out from under his pillow. "What are you doing? That's my drawer."

Arthur ignored him and continued to riffle through Merlin's things. After a few moments he paused, then began emptying the drawer's contents onto Merlin's bed. Merlin sat up and rubbed his eyes on the off chance that this was all some cruel dream—but of course Arthur was waking him up on his first day off in recent memory, because if Arthur had to be awake, why should anyone else be allowed to have a lie in?

"Ok, stop," Merlin said, finding energy in his irritation as Arthur tossed Merlin's condoms and—Christ—his lube onto Merlin's legs. "Just, stop."

Arthur pulled a face, but paused. "I need your razor."

Merlin blinked at him. "What?" he asked incredulously.

"Your razor," Arthur said slowly, as though speaking to someone with a mental deficiency, "I need it."

Merlin rubbed his eyes again. "Why would I keep a razor by my bed?"

Arthur shrugged. "Well, it wasn't in the bathroom."

It took a lot of self-control on Merlin's part to let slide the fact that Arthur had obviously been rummaging through his things for the better part of the morning, but he'd learned long ago that with Arthur, it was a matter of picking your battles. Whatever Merlin might have been angry about, Arthur was more or less guaranteed to do something even more infuriating in the near future.

"Weren't you just going on about being late or something?" Merlin asked, on the off-chance that it might encourage Arthur to extricate himself from Merlin's room in a timely fashion.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Yes. Because I can't find my damn razor, and I can't find your razor, and I look like a vagrant! Do you even listen?"

"I was asleep, how could I be expected to listen?"

Arthur made a frustrated sound and stormed out of the room, leaving Merlin in a pile of his own embarrassing possessions.

"A razor! Christ, my kingdom for a fucking razor," Arthur shouted in the next room.

Resigning himself to the fact that sleep was probably not going to be an option until Arthur's personal grooming was seen to, Merlin shucked his blankets and crawled out of bed, cursing his failure to suffocate Arthur in his sleep when he'd had the chance.

Judging by the clanging sounds, Arthur had resorted to digging through the kitchen cupboards, as though he might have confused his precious razor with a ramekin or some such. Merlin stumbled blearily into their shared bathroom, and briefly considered taking Arthur's razor—which was sitting on the back of the toilet, of course—and disposing of it in some thoroughly violent manner, possibly involving a bodily orifice of Arthur's to be chosen at random. Rejecting the idea only because it would involve a lot of oozing and not a lot of sleeping, Merlin walked into the kitchen where Arthur was staring accusingly at a perfectly innocent loaf of bread, as though it might be harbouring his fugitive toiletry. Merlin held up the prodigal razor.

"Did you hide it?" Arthur asked in all seriousness, snatching it from Merlin's outstretched hand.

"Why would I hide it? Believe it or not, I have no particular investment in the texture of your face. It was on the toilet, in case you were wondering," Merlin said, following Arthur into the bathroom.

"I didn't put it there," Arthur grumbled, sounding less than confident.

"Right. The Shaving Gnomes must have come for it in the night and shifted it a halfway across the bathroom, the bastards," said Merlin.

"Could you not be so damn cheeky this early in the morning?" Arthur snapped, lathering the lower half of his face rather aggressively.

Merlin gave a sarcastic chuckle. "I can refrain, yes. Particularly when I'm sleeping. You know, as I like to do when it's my first day off in two bloody weeks," he spat irritably.

Arthur half-rolled his eyes, too focused on shaving to fully commit. "I'm sorry, I know how dreadfully taxing it can be, saving baby whales or unwed mothers—whatever it is you do with those beatniks."

Merlin watched in the mirror as his own cheeks went pink, and reminded himself of all the unpleasant clean-up murdering Arthur would entail.

"Not everyone can be paid to shag their secretary all day," Merlin said, keeping his voice as level as possible.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "You're just jealous I never shagged you when you had the job," Arthur said flippantly.

Merlin felt his eyes widen.

This was one of the central problems with Arthur as a person: he was very Important. So much so that it was impossible to deny it, even in anger, even for the sake of argument. Arthur Pendragon, heir to the Pendragon fortune, heir apparent to Uther Pendragon's corporate stronghold, Camelot Investments, was, undoubtedly, Important. What was irritating was that it gave Arthur the impression that anyone or anything not important in the way he was Important was therefore Not Important. Merlin had begun attempting to beat this delusion out of Arthur roughly fifteen seconds after they met, and he'd achieved some measure of success, but every now and then Arthur, apparently, felt the insatiable urge to remind Merlin and anyone else in the vicinity that he was, first and foremost, an insufferable berk.

"And it's the environment. I'm working to protect the environment. You know, glaciers and things?" Merlin said.

"Right. Ice. Very controversial, ice," Arthur said, no longer really listening to what he was saying.

Merlin opened his mouth to protest that yes, actually, global warming was pretty controversial, but it was obvious Arthur's attention lay with his own face and not Merlin's life's work. Typical.

"Weren't you saying something about being 'oh god so unforgivably late,' or something?" Merlin asked, passing Arthur a towel automatically when he held out his hand. Certain aspects of being Arthur's one-time personal assistant were difficult to shake.

Arthur let out a long-suffering sigh. "We've been over this. Because I couldn't find my razor. Or your razor. Where is your razor, by the way?"

"It broke two days ago, can't you tell?" Merlin examined his chin in the mirror and realised that sadly, you couldn't much tell. "I haven't bought another yet because this is the first time in recent memory I haven't been at work or asleep. More the former than the latter," Merlin said, rubbing his eyes again involuntarily.

Arthur at last had the good grace to look slightly contrite. "Right."

"And anyway," Merlin continued, pleased with receiving what qualified as an apology coming from Arthur, "since when does shaving your blond, completely invisible stubble rank higher than maintaining your perfect record for punctuality? Your father won't be happy."

Arthur paused long enough to shoot Merlin a glare. "My father isn't giving a presentation in front of the entire board about why he should be allowed to take over the company next year."

Merlin grimaced. He had forgotten. He knew, vaguely, that Arthur had been gone a lot more than usual, but Merlin hadn't been around much, either. He'd been making a concerted effort to get out more, encouraged by Gwen's constant nagging that if he didn't put himself 'out there' (wherever the hell that was) while he was young and pretty, he was going to end up shrivelled and alone, having it off over pictures of strapping young blonds and the skinny men who loved them. Perhaps it was a good sign that something so hugely important in Arthur's life had barely registered, but mostly, Merlin just felt guilty.

"I still don't understand why the board has to approve it. I thought when Uther stepped down you just sort of inherited the throne." Arthur glared at him again, this time in the mirror. "No?"

"Camelot Investments is not a monarchy, Merlin, and even if it was, my father wouldn't let me anywhere near his precious company without completing some sort of hero's quest to prove my dedication first," Arthur said, sounding like someone who had accepted an unpleasant reality a long time ago and could nearly talk about it without a note of bitterness. "There would almost certainly be dragons involved."

"Well, I'm sure it doesn't matter. Who else would they have in charge, Gawain?"

Arthur snorted. "Not likely. But they could vote to sell off the company's assets to its competitors if they don't think I'm up to the job," Arthur said calmly.

Merlin nodded. For all that he complained about it, and he did, at exhaustive length, Camelot Investments meant the world to Arthur. Even Merlin, crusader for the little guy and all around anti-corporate bleeding-heart, couldn't begrudge Arthur his success. Arthur was always the first person at the office and, more often than not, the last to leave. For him, it was about more than profit margins and stock prices. It was about his father, who cobbled the whole operation together out of warring companies, who looked to Arthur to carry on his legacy and uphold everything he had built. It was about every last employee whose salary depended on Arthur's ability to convince a boardroom full of cutthroat, well-moneyed men that he was worthy of their confidence. For Arthur, it was a matter of honour.

"I don't see how anyone wouldn't want you running their company," Merlin said.

Arthur laughed humourlessly. "Yes, well, no offence—" A sure sign Arthur was about to say something truly horrifying "—but you and your co-workers wear matching t-shirts. You'll have to excuse me if I don't trust your business savvy."

"It's a non-profit. And the shirts aren't mandatory. But you're missing the point," Merlin said, trailing after Arthur as he went into his own room and stripped off his pyjama shirt. Without much warning, Merlin's point made itself scarce, the way Merlin's points often did when 'Arthur' and 'unexpected nudity' intersected. Even after months in suffocating proximity, the way Arthur's skin rippled when the smooth muscles of his back tightened never ceased to make Merlin's breath catch just a little.

"What is the point then?" Arthur supplied, oblivious as always to the effect he was having on Merlin's breath and, yes, alright, other parts of his person.

Merlin shook his head. "The point is it's not always about business, Arthur. The board is going to vote for you because you're you, and anyone with half a brain can see you were born to run that company."

Arthur shrugged on a perfectly pressed dress shirt and toed on his shiniest leather wingtips.

"We'll see," Arthur said, and sprinted out the door, snatching his briefcase from the kitchen counter along the way.

Merlin sighed and sat down on Arthur's bed. There was, theoretically, nothing to prevent Merlin from going back to sleep. It wasn't his life-altering meeting, after all, and just because Arthur's entire future depended on the events of the next few hours didn't mean Merlin should lose sleep over it.

Except, of course, that he couldn't sleep.

Something nervous and uncomfortable bubbled beneath Merlin's skin as he imagined Arthur walking into that big, echoing board room and trying to convince a bunch of trust-fund babies and stodgy old men of what Merlin already knew: that Arthur was, despite being spoilt and moody and a complete sod at times, the most qualified man on the planet to steer Camelot Investments into the future.

And, judging by the overstuffed folder on Arthur's bureau, he'd forgotten the quarterly earnings reports he was due to present in just over an hour, each annotated in Arthur's tight, meticulous scrawl.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding," Merlin said to no one in particular.

For about three seconds, he wished he could un-see the folder altogether, but then he thought of Arthur, anxious, brave Arthur, with his armour of Anderson & Sheppard suits and his utter inability to admit defeat, charging into the boardroom without his meticulously prepared handouts and—well, obviously Merlin was going to break his skinny neck to keep that from happening. It was what he did, after all, what he'd been doing since twenty minutes after they first met, when Arthur, in his enthusiasm for telling Merlin what a moron he was, failed to notice a bloody crane swinging towards him, and Merlin had thrown him out of the way without thinking. What mattered was that Arthur did courageous, stupid things, and Merlin saved his well-formed arse.

* * *

It wasn't that Arthur was afraid of the board, exactly. His father had started forcing him to sit in on meetings when he was still at university, and he'd had drinks with every last board member on numerous occasions. They were just men, and Arthur knew himself to be a better leader than any of them. But still, as he prepared to enter the boardroom—an hour early, despite his minor hygiene-induced breakdown—the lingering swell of doubt brought on by years in Uther Pendragon's mighty and unforgiving shadow threatened to choke him.

"Can I get you anything, Mr. Pendragon?" Arthur's painfully stylish assistant asked as Arthur paced past her desk for the fifth time in as many minutes.

"No, no, thank you Miss Mettihew," Arthur said, reflexively. "Actually, a coffee. Or tea. Whatever's hot."

"Right away, Mr. Pendragon," she said before scurrying away in the manner of all highly competent, well-paid staff.

Long before Miss Mettihew, there was a brief period during which Merlin was Arthur's assistant. That their friendship survived Merlin's tenure at the company, Arthur is still amazed. On the other hand, though he'd never ever admit it under pain of death, what Merlin had lacked in useful skills and, to a certain extent, common sense, he made up for in bizarre charm and a natural immunity to Arthur's most intimidating glares. He'd only lasted a year or so as Arthur's assistant, but when Arthur had found himself suddenly lacking a flatmate and had found Merlin lacking a place to live, he'd more or less bullied Merlin into living with him. To keep him out of trouble, of course.

Arthur was jerked unceremoniously from his reverie by the sharp click of frightening Italian stilettos against marble floor.

"There you are," Morgana said. "I thought you'd be here hours ago. There was a pool going, you know."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Arthur spat moodily.

Morgana shrugged and collapsed into Miss Mettihew's chair. "Save your sympathy for Gawain. His money said you wouldn't go home at all. How is Merlin, by the way?" she asked casually in a voice that told Arthur he was missing something important.

Arthur resumed his pacing. "He's fine? I don't know. I've been a bit busy lately. I'm not his mother, you know."

"I should hope not," said Morgana, arching one perfectly shaped eyebrow. "You're his… what are they calling these days?"

Arthur gave her a look he hoped conveyed his absolute confusion. "His friend? His flatmate? What are you on about?" he said, momentarily forgetting what he should have been worrying about in favour of worrying about Merlin. So, nothing new there.

"Honestly, Arthur, have you never considered the fact that Merlin is the first person you've met, male or female, who's been willing to live with you longer than the duration of a really nasty flu?"

"Comparing me to illness now, are you?"

Morgana rolled her eyes. "I am merely pointing out that Merlin has been around a lot longer than most, including Sophia. You shouldn't take it for granted."

Arthur shuddered involuntarily. He still ran into Sophia at least twice a year at uncomfortable business functions and she never seemed to run short of ways to bring up their brief but traumatic relationship. It was coming home to find Sophia in flagrante delicto with one of Camelot Investments' more obnoxious attorneys that had lead to Arthur's anti-monogamist sentiments of late.

"And I'm still not sure what you're on about. He's… well, he's Merlin, isn't he? Hardly my type," Arthur said, hoping against all evidence to the contrary that the conversation would end there.

"Yes, I'd forgotten about your discerning tastes. You like them—what did you say that one time at the pub? Attractive and willing?" Morgana said with a positively evil smirk.

"I was pissed and you know it—"

"Pissed and terribly emphatic," she said coolly. "And Merlin, well," she paused to give him a knowing look, "is certainly the former, in his way, and if you haven't scared him off by now, I'd be willing to bet he's the latter, as well."

"Gambling is a sin," Arthur said darkly, putting his hands on the desk and leaning in close.

"So's lust," Morgana said, leaning in so that their faces were inches apart, and Arthur could almost swear he saw her tongue dart out to wet the corner of her lips in a very distracting manner.

Arthur shook himself. "Enough, Morgana. In case you've forgotten, I have the alpha and omega of meetings in less than an hour."

Morgana let out a cool, tinkling laugh. "Oh Arthur, you're much too dramatic. It's all for show, and you know it," she said, with the confidence of one whose job was more or less secure so long as half the board continued to live in fear of her and the other half would amputate a limb to see her take off her obscenely tailored blouse.

"You'll have to excuse me if I don't take your words of comfort to heart," Arthur said, positioning the desk between himself and Morgana's pointy, pointy heels. "Now, to what do I owe the aggravation of your company? Or have you just come for the show?"

"I came to make sure you weren't harassing the underlings to calm your nerves. Where is your assistant, by the way?" she asked, suddenly concerned by Miss Mettihew's prolonged absence.

Arthur blinked. "I… may have sent her for… something."

Morgana stared. "Something?"

"I don't remember. That's what I have an assistant for," Arthur snapped.

"Alright, alright, I see you are the essence of composure. I won't keep you," Morgana said patronizingly, extracting herself from the chair in one improbably graceful move. As she drew near, some part of Arthur, bourn of instinct and years of dealing with Morgana at her most annoyingly perceptive, began to shriek girlishly with alarm. "Just, try not to lose sight of what matters, Arthur," Morgana said quietly, fussing over his shirt collar.

Arthur glanced at her uneasily. "And the future of the company—of your employer, I might add—that's not what matters?"

Morgana flashed him an infuriating smile. "For someone so clever you can be so thick when you want to be."

Arthur laughed. "Is this your socially inept way of wishing me luck?"

"Of course not," she said seriously. "You don't need it."

And with an uncharacteristically warm kiss to Arthur's cheek, Morgana turned on her heel and strode off to terrorize the interns, or whatever it was she did when she wasn't destroying the marriages of vice-presidents or making Arthur feel like a twelve-year-old in the worst possible way. This time, however, as he watched her recede down the tastefully-lit hallway, Arthur found himself unaccountably grateful for Morgana's peculiar brand of irreverent concern.

"Right," Arthur said, glancing around. Without waiting for to find out what beverages the lounge had on offer, Arthur strode into the conference room and tried to ignore the war-drums he kept hearing in his head.

* * *

"Bugger, bugger, fuck, goddamn—" Merlin muttered as he sprinted towards the tube. He could have taken Arthur's extra car, which Merlin had long suspected Arthur only kept around to irritate him, but he refused to drive it since discovering Arthur had given him the only key, like some sort of kept man.

It was Friday, for fuck's sake, the day of rest in Merlin's do-gooder, non-profit managing, highly underappreciated, obscenely over-worked existence. The fact that he was both vertical and conscious annoyed Merlin immensely, but that he was doing it because of Arthur – can't bloody stand to see anyone well-rested – Pendragon, well, that was just the frosting on the cake of misery Merlin felt he was being force-fed by the universe.

Of course, he could have gone back to sleep, theoretically. Once Arthur was out the door there was nothing keeping Merlin from rolling over, tucking in, and taking a nap so epic minstrels would compose ballads about it. Nothing except the memory of Arthur's face, pale and uncertain, as he waged unnecessary war on his stubble in the bathroom mirror. Nothing except the fact that, at some point, Arthur's happiness and general well-being had become intrinsically linked to Merlin's own, without his knowledge or consent. Living with Arthur had been a bit like gradual brain-rape, so that one night Merlin went to bed with the understanding that Arthur Pendragon was a classic ass who could barely tie his own damn ties without Merlin's help, and woke up the next day concerned about Arthur's potential, or something. It was really very unfair.

Two trains and one brisk walk later, Merlin reached his destination. Standing before the looming monolith of Camelot Investments never ceased to make Merlin feel insignificant. It didn't help that the large, lethal-looking security guard in the lobby failed to call Merlin by the correct name even once in almost a year of daily encounters. Merlin just hoped the memorable size of his ears would be sufficient to get him inside.

"Hello, Rogerson," Merlin said, feigning good-cheer.

Rogerson looked at Merlin impassively, the way a mountain might look down upon an anthill. "Hello, Martin."

"It's… It's ah, it's Merlin, actually… Not that it matters," Merlin said, glancing between the clock and Rogerson's shiny black head. He'd never been clear on whether Rogerson was the man's first or last name, but Merlin was pretty sure asking for clarification might be the last thing he ever did. "I just need to speak with Mr. Pendragon—err, Arthur, that is."

Rogerson looked at him appraisingly, and then nodded once. "I will have him paged," he rumbled. Merlin wondered if this was the sound small creatures heard just before being crushed by a rockslide.

"No! I mean, you can't," Merlin said. Rogerson raised one eyebrow, obviously unaccustomed to being told what he couldn't do. "I mean, he's got this meeting, this presentation thing, and I just… I need to see him. If that's alright," he added quickly.

For a long moment, Merlin was sure Rogerson was going to forcibly remove him from the building, and Merlin prayed he would use both hands, if only to spare Merlin's dignity, but then, much to Merlin's surprise, Rogerson nodded in the director of the lifts before returning to whatever it was human land formations did to pass the time. Once the fear-induced paralysis wore off, Merlin pelted towards the nearest lift and mashed the "up" arrow three times, for good measure.

* * *

"Am I to assume this means you are prepared for your presentation?"

Arthur jerked up from where he'd let his head fall against the cool, varnished wood of the enormous round conference table. Like a chopping block, he thought morbidly.

"Of course," he said, clearing his throat in a manner reminiscent of the man standing in the doorway.

Uther gave a thin smile. "Very good." He stepped into the room with the quiet confidence of a man who could probably have you killed quickly or painfully, depending on his mood, and so quietly even he wouldn't know about it.

Arthur straightened up, subconsciously, and wiped his palms on the knees of his trousers, just as he had when he was eleven and Uther had decided he was ready to start learning about the company he would one day run. You are my son, and as such, you have the right to everything in my domain. But with privilege comes responsibility, Arthur, and yours is to your shareholders, your employees, and your name, he'd said, and Arthur had nodded furiously, petrified and exhilarated all at once, and how could that be?

"Did you need something?" Arthur asked after a lengthy silence. His father didn't make social calls, and he never left his penthouse of an office without a reason.

Uther glanced at him, and then went back to staring into the middle distance.

"What happens here today will determine whether the name Camelot Investments lives to see another generation of successes, or dies with my retirement," he said, matter-of-factly. "I know you will do your best, Arthur, but if you fail today, I want you to know—"

"I'm failing you and not just the company," Arthur interrupted, feeling the anxiety he'd kept banked in his stomach catch like a spark in a drought-ravaged field.

Uther paused and studied him.

"If you fail today, I want you to know I am proud of you," Uther said, his voice cool and level.

Arthur blinked at him stupidly for a moment before realizing that he was probably supposed to respond soon. "Right…" he said, feeling his stomach twist with something odd and unfamiliar.

Uther nodded once, and swept out of the room, leaving Arthur alone in the loaded silence of the impending storm.

* * *

"Fuck!" Merlin shouted, having accidentally pressed the button for the 30th floor, which was just below the button for the 32nd floor, where Arthur's office was located. "Shit," he added, for emphasis.

If only Arthur wasn't such a prat, Merlin thought irritably. He would have said this aloud as well, but he secretly suspected the lifts had ears. Because really, if he thought about it—and he certainly didn't—it wasn't that he minded acting as Arthur's flatmate-cum-lifepartner. Given the chance, Merlin knew he would probably spend the rest of his life picking up Arthur's dirty socks and delivering mind-bogglingly important documents that Arthur couldn't be arsed to remember. And that was sort of the problem, because no matter how willing Merlin was, sooner or later Arthur was bound to find someone else to fill the role. Someone tall and pretty with enormous… potential, or broad and angular with, well, enormous potential. Then Merlin would be relegated to bachelor friend, former live-in nanny, and desperate pathetic mess destined to get sloshed at the wedding, make an emasculating toast, and probably cry in the coatroom.

It wasn't all pining and moony eyes, or anything. Merlin didn't fall asleep at night thinking of Arthur and wake up consumed by his unending passion, nothing like that. It was just that with Arthur around, Merlin found it difficult to imagine there being anyone else. How would they spend Sunday nights drinking wine and watching horrid Bollywood musicals if Merlin was busy being in a healthy relationship? It would never work. He just couldn't explain it to Arthur in so many words for fear of actually burning alive with the intensity of his own flaming gay.

Merlin leapt out the moment the doors opened, ran halfway down the hall, and then promptly realised he was on the wrong floor. "Idiot lift!" he shouted. A passing accountant shot him a filthy glare. Merlin ignored him and ran for the stairwell he knew to be nearby from his experience snogging an attractive broker in it while he worked for the company. The man, Richard was his name as far as Merlin could remember, had bright blue eyes and a thing for sex in public, slightly unsanitary locals.

Three flights up, Merlin remembered another vital detail from his clandestine romance—the key they'd needed to get out of the stairwell. Some genius in security had thought it clever to make the doors lock automatically except on the ground floor to discourage people sneaking in. It mostly had the effect of discouraging anyone from using the stairs, ever, and trapping hapless interns. And Merlin, apparently.

"I'm going to kill him. I'm going to wait until he sleeps and end his worthless life," Merlin muttered to himself. Folder still clutched in his now-sweating hand, Merlin planted himself in front of the door to the 32nd floor and started knocking. Thirty seconds later, when his knuckles began to throb, he amended, "I'm going to wake him up first. I want him to see death as it comes for him."

* * *

"Oh. Oh god," Arthur said quietly, eyeing the growing crowd in the conference room through the chic glass walls.

"Something you require, Mr. Pendragon?" Miss Mettihew said in her calm, posh accent.

"Yes! I mean…" he scrubbed a hand over his face. "Nothing you can help me with, thanks." Arthur ran into his office and closed the door, scrambling through the papers on his desk like a man possessed, hoping he was wrong, hoping he was hallucinating from the stress, because how could he have forgotten the bloody printouts for his presentation—that were his presentation. There was absolutely no way. Say what you will for nepotism, but Arthur graduated in the top five percent of his class at Cambridge, and he'd out-worked every last junior executive his first year on the job. Arthur did not forget things, important things, because when Arthur fucked up, it wasn't just egg on his face, it was egg on his father's last name and unemployment for his people.

And he had seriously fucked up.

If it hadn't been for Merlin, who was clearly at fault in all this, Arthur's sure he would have remembered to grab it. Ok, it was just that he'd been dressing and Merlin kept looking at him like he did when he didn't think Arthur would notice, and it had taken every bit of Arthur's depleted self-control not to punch him in the mouth or, just maybe, throw him across the bed and figure out exactly what Merlin was staring at.

God, it was always Merlin. Merlin, who had been nothing but trouble from the day they met. Merlin, who ate his expensive cheeses and slept in his favourite Harrow t-shirt because he said it smelt of money and latent homosexuality. Merlin, who had never once in five years been any more or less kind to Arthur because of his last name.

Arthur stood in his lavish office, with just the right amount of morning sunlight streaming in through the spotless windows, and realised, with uncomfortable certainty that somehow just about everything in his life existed in relation to skinny, annoying, uncoordinated, big-hearted, wonderful, wonderful Merlin. And suddenly it didn't matter quite so much that he was about to lose the company to Valiant and his band of sell-happy followers, who would use Arthur's inability to remember his own stupid papers as evidence of his ineptitude, as a portent of the financial ruin to come. Because when he went home at the end of the bloodbath with his father's angry voice still echoing in his ears, Merlin would be there making disgusting fusion dishes in Arthur's expensive kitchen. And, apparently, that was what mattered.

Morgana was never going to shut up about this.

"Well," he said aloud to himself in the calm tones of someone aware that they are having a breakdown, "I suppose that settles it."

Arthur walked out of his office slowly but without hesitation. He walked past the photo of Merlin and Gwen at the beach that hung on his wall, and past the Rubik's cube Merlin had bought him for his birthday two years ago so they could both learn to solve it and have Drunken Cube Races.

On his way into the conference room, Miss Mettihew gave him a polite smile, and Arthur tried not to hold it against her that she wasn't really the best assistant he'd had.

"Is there anything I can get you before the meeting?" she asked helpfully.

"No, no, I think I'm fine," he said, and was somewhat surprised to realise he was telling the truth.

* * *

"Morgana! Morgana!" Merlin shouted, banging on the door with one of his trainers.

"Merlin? What the hell are you doing in there?" a very puzzled looking Morgana asked, opening the door to the stair.

Merlin, so overjoyed at the sight of her in all her low-cut professional glory, grabbed her by the face and kissed her firmly on the cheek.

"You are spectacular! May you and Mordred have lots of sex and offspring," he said, to Morgana's continued bewilderment.

"Are you on drugs?" she asked, looking both alarmed and amused.

"No! I've got—Arthur's got—that presentation, I have the things for it. The papers. No time!" Merlin yelled over his shoulder, sprinting down the hall in what he hoped was still the direction of Arthur's office.

"You've got what?" Morgana called after him.

"His papers! Long story, explain later. You are a goddess!" Merlin screamed, loud enough that two passing secretaries began to giggle amongst themselves.

It was 8:57, which meant he should have had three minutes to spare, were it not for the fact that Arthur's internal clock was set ahead by five minutes at birth. So Merlin tucked the folder under his arm and pelted down the hallway, dodging harried-looking interns and, if Merlin wasn't mistaken, the thin, well-groomed woman Arthur had hired to replace him. He thought about how inconveniently big Camelot Investments' headquarters were, and how tired he was, and how badly he wanted to slow down, stop all together and let Arthur fend for himself, because really, Merlin didn't owe him anything. Really, Merlin was just his friend and his flatmate, and nothing more. But mostly, Merlin thought about Arthur and kept running.


	3. Chapter 3

_This_, Arthur thought wildly, _is absolutely ridiculous_.

It was just so cliché. He could practically hear the music swell, and he half wondered if Merlin was going to do his Graduate impression and pound on the glass wall at the back of the conference room. He didn't, of course. In fact, Merlin looked a bit uncomfortable standing there, clutching Arthur's dear-fucking-god-so-vital printouts in one hand and what appeared to be a shoe in the other.

"Gentlemen, we'll begin in just a moment. Please make yourselves comfortable," Arthur said quickly, barely registering his own words. He was already halfway out the door before he finished his sentence, and two steps later he had Merlin by the elbow, dragging him towards his office. Merlin went willingly, for once.

Arthur shut the door behind them, not bothering to turn on the light. The room was bright and grey with morning sunlight, almost peaceful, and Merlin shone with it, all sharp-angles and pale skin.

"You brought my printouts?" Arthur said, wonderingly, sort of surprised and yet sort of not. Sort of not at all.

Merlin smiled, hesitant, and pressed the folder to Arthur's chest. His fingers brushed Arthur's shirt, and Arthur felt his heart leap into his throat, because now that he saw it, saw all the little ways Merlin had become part of his life, he couldn't exactly un-see it. And perhaps that's why, without even thinking about it really, Arthur babbled his gratitude, telling Merlin that he was amazing, and that he loved him, and that dinner was on Arthur. Except, by the time Arthur got to "dinner," Merlin was staring at him like Bambi on opiates, with too-big, glazed-over eyes and a posture that screamed paralysed-by-shock. It was then Arthur realised that while he was pretty sure he did love Merlin (even more certain than he'd been before saying it aloud), perhaps he could have chosen a more opportune moment to mention it. Even so, it shouldn't have mattered, because mates could love each other, could even tell each other as much when they're drunk or dying, only Arthur was pretty sure he'd missed his chance to laugh it off and pretend it was bourn of gratitude and relief, not years of quiet wanting.

"Did you—" Merlin attempted after a lingering silence.

"Right, well. That," Arthur interrupted, fumbling with the folder still pressed to his chest by their combined fingers. Merlin drew back like he'd been burned, wary and, yes, that was probably also Arthur's fault.

"Arthur," Merlin said cautiously, his voice quiet and curious.

"Look, I didn't – I think I just-" Arthur attempted to explain, but Merlin cut him off again, this time by pointing to the door over Arthur's shoulder.

"You should - your meeting. You're late," Merlin said.

Arthur nodded dumbly, then realised what Merlin was saying, panicked, and nodded again. "Right, shit," he said frantically, "I'd better," he gestured toward the door.

Merlin gave him a strained smile and Arthur felt his internal organs do something strange and uncomfortable, because god, this was just not how it was supposed to happen – not that Arthur had given it a lot of thought. There were supposed to be flowers and wine and maybe moonlight or something equally homosexual, given the circumstances.

"Listen," Arthur said suddenly as Merlin began edging towards the door. Merlin stopped, hand on the doorknob, eyes downcast. "I'll be home early, all right? I'll be – and it would be nice if you were around so we could – talk. Or something," he finished awkwardly.

Finally, for the first time since Arthur's accidental, life-altering Freudian slip, Merlin looked him in the eye, a little uncertain, a little hopeful, and said, "Yeah. Yeah, ok."

Arthur grinned, and he must have looked like an idiot, because Merlin struggled to maintain a serious expression, then smiled back at him, bright and brilliant as the sun.

* * *

Merlin knew all about being in love with his best mate. When he was thirteen, he spent an entire moping, besotted summer mooning over Will, his oldest and, at the time, closest friend, only to have the wind knocked out of him when Will, in a feat of epic hormones, started snogging Nina Wilson, who'd been known primarily for her tremendous breasts and apparently willingness to share them. It had stung, of course, in the way of all first loves gone sour, but it had been all the more painful because he couldn't confide his adolescent pain in the one person in all the world who was sure to understand. Still, he'd managed to shed his shroud of heartbreak with coltish resilience, and when he confessed his once-consuming crush to Will several years (and pints) later, Will had laughed and kissed him sloppily on the cheek and assured him that Nina had been a crap lay anyway.

This time though, they were adults, and Merlin couldn't decide if that made it better or worse. Arthur was a complete arse, of course, but he'd always managed to come through for Merlin when he was love-sick and wounded, even if he tended to offer consolation in the form of alcohol and vicious remarks directed towards the suitor in question. But with this, well, this was uncharted territory. What if Arthur regretted it? The kiss on the sofa all those months ago, the loaded glances Merlin couldn't help but return, and now this, this outburst, as Merlin had decided to label it, that wouldn't mean a thing if it weren't for everything else.

By the time he made it back to their flat – his and Arthur's flat, because there was no "they," was there? – Merlin felt certain he was on the verge of an anxiety attack. It was unsettling to want something so completely for such a long time, only to have the chance dealt to him just when he'd accepted that it wasn't in the cards. Without a lot of conscious thought, Merlin liberated a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and settled himself on the couch. He considered skipping straight to whatever hard liquor they had on hand, but the thought of taking shots before noon instantly dredged up memories of days spent curled over a toilet back at uni. Perhaps as a testament to Arthur's indelible influence, he didn't bother with a glass, taking long, hurried sips straight from the bottle and pointedly not thinking of how appalled his mother would be.

On the end table beside him there sat a photograph of he and Arthur at one of Uther's legendary soirées, each with a drink in hand, Arthur's arm slung over Merlin's shoulder. They looked happy, grinning drunkenly at the camera, and while Merlin couldn't for the life of him remember where or why the party took place, it still represented a fixed point on the timeline of Merlin's existence, one he could always point to and think, _then, I was content; then, everything was right._

After a few minutes, the dull warmth of alcohol began to fill up his limbs, and Merlin let himself sink into the sofa as he waited patiently for everything to change.

* * *

It was nearly four by the time Arthur escaped the herd of VPs and board members eager to ask him inane, self-important questions. He may or may not have broken a half-dozen traffic laws on his way back to his and Merlin's – no, _their_ – flat, but he definitely made impressive time, and he figured that of all the reasons to break the law, this was a really, really good one.

"Merlin?" he called the second he managed to fumble open the door. For a second, he received no response, and his heart sank at the very real possibility that Merlin had decided to skip town or something stupid, but then he caught sight of a tuft of black hair sticking up over the back of the sofa. "Hey, how was your day?" Arthur said, coming to stand between Merlin and the coffee table upon which sat an empty bottle of wine.

"How did the meeting go?" Merlin said, oblivious to Arthur's question.

Arthur fought a twinge of frustration, because really, Merlin could barely nurse a pint without giggling (after two he often began making statements of a rather unseemly variety, but Arthur tended to stop him after one when he wasn't feeling masochistic). Of course he'd choose today to embrace his inner alcoholic.

"Long. I came straight here, so, that's what? Seven hours? Mostly questions, coffee breaks to sneak off and whisper, a two hour lunch. God, they did drag it out, but. But I think it went… well," Arthur said hesitantly afraid to jinx his luck and unsure whether he even was supposed to answer that question.

Without meeting his eye, Merlin nodded, his long body limp against the back of the sofa. For a long moment, Arthur stood frozen by his own ineptitude, rocking on the balls of his feet as he tried to decide whether to flee with his dignity in tact or charge into battle for a second time that day, with higher stakes this time.

Finally, he settled on a simple but firm, "so."

Merlin glanced at him, frowned, and looked away, so Arthur added, "I'm sorry, Merlin, really."

And he was, because this was his fault. He couldn't keep his bloody mouth closed in the face of Merlin saving his arse (yet again), looking worn out and more than a little irritated, but still _there_ when Arthur needed him. But more importantly, because Merlin deserved better than that, an unintentional outburst of the things he should have been brave enough to say on his own. They both did, after so much waiting and wanting and secret, guilty hope.

"Are you?" Merlin asked, and god, even drunk he had this way of looking right past Arthur's eyeballs and directly into his brain. Usually, it was disconcerting; right now, it made Arthur want cover his face with his hands like a five-year-old.

"I—" Fuck it, Arthur thought, sensibly, just, fuck this. "I think about your knees. A lot. Rather a lot, probably, I don't know. How much is it normal to think about your best mate's—oh, sod it," Arthur said, and then got down on _his_ knees, wedged himself between Merlin's outstretched legs, jerked him forward by the front of his shirt, and did what he should have done months ago, years even.

Merlin, bless him, kissed back, a little wet and uncoordinated, but still. It was more than Arthur figured he deserved. Merlin's mouth tasted like expensive wine and crisps, and his tongue was hot and soft against Arthur's teeth, the roof of his mouth. When Merlin pulled back, just enough to look at Arthur without going cross-eyed, Arthur realised he had his hands fisted in Merlin's baggy jeans, and that Merlin's fingers were twisted in his hair, holding on, keeping him there, as though Arthur could ever leave.

The strange, uncertain expression on Merlin's face made Arthur's stomach clench.

"What?" he asked quietly, trying not to sound defensive.

"My knees? That's sort of weird," Merlin said, wrinkling his nose unattractively.

A laugh burst out of Arthur's mouth before he had a chance to stop it, it was just that sort of chest-swelling, stomach-turning relief.

"Oh, not _just_ your knees," he said, aiming for pseudo-seductive. If it came out sounding low and rough and earnest, well, he supposed there were worse things. "Your hands, too. And your hips," he said, sliding his palms up to rest on the sliver of exposed skin where Merlin's shirt had ridden up in the back. "Did I mention your ears?"

"God," Merlin said, sounding a little breathless, "I always suspected you were a disgusting pervert. Tie fetish notwithstanding."

Arthur smiled up at him, and wondered if it was too soon to suggest they relocate to someplace where he wouldn't be forced to kneel. Well, unless that's what Merlin was into. Merlin seemed to have the same idea, pushing Arthur away, then standing up and dragging Arthur to his feet.

They kissed again, this time with more intent and less finesse, and it took every microbe of discipline Arthur possessed to pull back and say, without much conviction, "Um. You're drunk. I think."

The look Merlin gave him was as positively predatory, if bleary. "Yes. Maybe. A bit," he said, and Arthur's heart sunk. "But I haven't been drunk for, like, the past three years, so, just. Can we maybe pretend I'm not?" he asked, cocking his head to one side coquettishly.

Arthur groaned and resisted the urge to bang his head against the nearest wall. "God, I hate you. No, no we can't. I can't. This is too…" he didn't want to say "important," because that made it sound like there was something left to be decided here, and as far as Arthur was concerned, the facts of the situation were pretty well established. They were going to fuck, a lot, soon, and hopefully many times over the course of their… well, in the future. It just wasn't supposed to begin like this. "Special," Arthur settled on after a too-long pause.

Merlin gave him a sceptical look. "You… do know you're not going to be sullying my innocence or anything? I mean, it's pretty sullied."

Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Sullied in several very creative ways, I might add. Would you like a demonstration?" Merlin said, leaning in close so that Arthur could feel the words breathed against his skin.

"You are such an idiot," Arthur said, if only to avoid saying _nevermind, pick a bedroom and take off all your clothes._

"Look, as much as I appreciate your need for… romance—"

Arthur gave in and rolled his eyes. "Shut up," he said, tugging Merlin towards his room. When they made it through the door, Arthur did in fact throw Merlin across the bed and yank off his trousers, but much to Merlin's dismay, he then shucked his own trousers and button-up and turned back the already unmade sheets.

"Under the blankets? Pendragon, you are such a prude."

"Oh, just get in you lush. Jesus," Arthur snapped, trying desperately to will away his own rather insistent erection.

As soon as Merlin settled under the sheets, Arthur crawled in beside him and sort of wrestled him into submission, arms tangled and faces close, too close for comfort, really, but _good_ nonetheless.

"Now. Go to sleep. And when you wake up, if you can say you're A-B-C's backwards I'll let you have your way with me," Arthur told him with all the authority he could muster.

And Merlin must have been drunk, because instead of telling Arthur to sod off, he giggled, and tucked his head against Arthur's shoulder.

"Sir yes sir," he replied enthusiastically.

A long, comfortable silence stretched out between them, and Arthur found himself petting the back of Merlin's head, quite without meaning to.

"Hey," Merlin said, lifting his head suddenly, just when Arthur was sure he had passed out. "What are you going to do until then?"

Arthur shrugged. "Fantasize about your knees. Go to sleep," Arthur said quietly. "What's a few more hours?" he added, almost inaudibly.

Merlin gave him a soppy grin and kissed the side of his nose. A few moments later he was snoring, drool pooling on Arthur's soft cotton undershirt.

* * *

"I hope you're not hung-over, because I'm going to screw your brains out now."

Merlin opened his eyes. There was something heavy on his face, and it took him a moment to realise it was his own arm. When he could see again, after some bleary blinking, Arthur was hovering over him looking far too smug for anyone's good.

"Can I clean my teeth first?" Merlin asked.

Arthur shook his head. "Nope. I'm sorry, but I've had a raging hard-on for about six hours. Your dental hygiene is just going to have to take one for the team," Arthur said, then turned towards bedside table. He returned with a glass of water, two pills, and what appeared to be a mint.

Merlin took them all without question, draining half the glass in one gulp. Arthur leaned back against the headboard and glanced at him impatiently.

"Christ, spoiled rotten," Merlin muttered, reaching over to put down the glass and straddling Arthur's lap in one move.

"Yes, well, you're a sloppy drunk. I didn't want teeth in unfortunate places," Arthur said, palming Merlin's hips through the thin cotton of his pants.

"I am not. And you shouldn't _lie_. We both know your sense of chivalry won out over your libido," Merlin said, scooting closer to Arthur's chest, close enough to realise Arthur wasn't kidding about being _ready to go_.

"Are you done talking?" Arthur asked, leaning forward so that their foreheads touched.

Merlin was.

Having sex with Arthur, or Having Sex With Arthur, as Merlin's brain kept putting it, was a lot like living with him: there was bickering, Arthur was bossy as all hell, Merlin complained through most of it and wanted to do it for the rest of his life.

Towards the end, though, something shifted in the air, and it got very quiet. The sounds of their skin slapping, Arthur's hips against the backs of Merlin's thighs, had Merlin clutching the pillow lodged under his chest, pushing back with every thrust. Arthur kept running his hand up and down Merlin's back, his side, over his ribs, and Merlin wanted to tell him that he didn't need soothing, thank you, but the tenderness of Arthur's lips on the bumps of his spine made the words tangle and stick in his throat.

"God. Oh, _god_, Merlin, I—you," Arthur whispered nonsensically.

Merlin nodded, worried that if he started talking, it would all come flooding out, the devotion and affection and blind, helpless need he'd kept carefully tucked into the corner of his chest for so long.

"I can't believe we waited so—_oh_. Fuck," Arthur said, speeding up. His right hand slid along Merlin's stomach, down between his legs to fist his cock, already aching and slick. "_Shit_, love. Just, _ah_, you just. God, _god_," he grunted, hoarse and soft against the skin of Merlin's neck, hips stuttering.

Before he could even think about holding off, Merlin was coming over Arthur's clenched fingers and onto the bed, shivering-hot and babbling anything and everything that came to mind. Arthur wrapped his free arm tight around Merlin's chest and pulled him up and back, into his lap, fucking up into him hard and deep, holding him there as Arthur shuddered and came, forehead pressed to Merlin's shoulder, murmuring words like "want," and "need" and Merlin's name again and again, until the syllables ran together, senseless and lovely.

Afterward, they lay on their backs, shoulders pressed together, fingers tangled beneath the blanket Merlin had pulled over them both when he noticed Arthur's arms and chest were covered with gooseflesh.

"That's not—I'm not _cold_, you idiot," Arthur had said, too breathless to be taken seriously, and it had taken Merlin several seconds to understand. Then he'd tucked them both in anyway.

"Can we make this room a study? Or a den. I've always fancied having a den. I could start smoking a pipe, and I'll have a moose mounted on the wall over the fireplace," Arthur said after a few minutes.

Merlin glared at the ceiling. "Why can't we convert your room? I like my room," he said, and yes, perhaps it came out sounding more petulant than reasonable, but so what. Arthur couldn't bloody well talk.

"Because this is my flat! And my room's bigger," Arthur countered.

Merlin turned onto his side and propped himself up. "Fine, your highness," he said, leaning down to kiss the smugness off of Arthur's mouth. If it took a few minutes then, well, he was just being thorough. "But you're not mounting anything."

"Oh, _really_?" Arthur said, because god, he was so completely insufferable.

"Nothing dead," Merlin corrected quickly.

"Nothing furry. Well, until your winter coat grows in," Arthur suggested, hands wandering down Merlin's chest, tugging at the sparse line of hair beneath his navel, as if to emphasize his point.

"All right, don't push it," Merlin said, not quite managing to keep a straight face. "Just because we're—whatever we are now, doesn't mean—"

"Us," Arthur interrupted. "We're us, just, more so, I think."

"Right. Of course we are," Merlin said softly.

"A lot more… so," Arthur said, and God, if he hadn't looked so troubled, so very serious just then, Merlin might not have caught on. It seemed stupid, in light of the sweat-soaked sheets and the slickness on the backs of Merlin's thighs, but after all the confusion and the severe, manful lack of communication, Merlin supposed it was only fair.

"I—I love you, too. You know that, right?" Merlin asked, because apparently, it needed to be said.

Arthur frowned at him. "Well, I _figured_, but—"

"But nothing," Merlin cut in, irrationally annoyed that Arthur couldn't just look at him and see all the ways Merlin was pathetically and irreversibly ruined by him. "I love you. And I want you. And I think I always will, all right? So, none of this yuppie angst, please. It's so unflattering."

Arthur snorted, rolling over to press Merlin back against the mattress. "So's that stupid face you make when you're pining after me and you think I'm not looking. I'm always looking," he said, pressing a kiss to the bow of Merlin's mouth. "Always," he murmured again, and Merlin couldn't help but believe him.

**The End**


End file.
